the moon burned silver overhead, fat and unblinking, turning every leaf-edge into a blade of light. zharille moved low through the trees, shoulders rolling with the easy power of a huntress who had already feasted on victory. the day had been a blaze in her blood—castle rock taken in a single crimson rush, the old matriarch's throat opened beneath her jaws, the throne hers by right of blood and strength. she had walked those cliffs, every echo of her steps a claim, every cower from the survivors a sweet confirmation. power still sang in her veins, thick and heady, making her coat bristle with untouchable heat.

but night had come, and with it the first real twist of hunger.

she still tasted queen blood on her tongue—metallic, warm, thick as the memory itself. it coated the back of her throat, a lingering copper tang that refused to fade even as she swallowed. in her ears rang the cries for mercy from those who had opposed her: the shrill yelps of bitches who had watched their men stand meek and trembling, unable to defend their land, their legacy, their lives. the sound lingered like a phantom howl, pathetic and delicious in equal measure. their weakness had only sharpened her triumph, and now that victory tasted almost as sweet as the blood itself.

yet a new hunger stirred beneath the fading power-high, deeper and more insistent than the mere ache of an empty belly.

she did not recognize this forest. the trunks were too close, the undergrowth too soft and whispering against her belly, nothing like the sharp pines that should have flanked the mountain's base. zharille pressed on anyway, nostrils flaring at unfamiliar damp earth and moss and the faint, distant musk of prey she could not yet name. her paws fell silent on the loam, claws flexing into it with each deliberate step, the same way they had flexed into the matriarch's hide only hours earlier. the thrill still lingered, a low electric current beneath her skin, but her stomach had begun to knot and pull, empty now that the rush was fading. she was oblivious to the slow change around her—the trees thinning, the ground rising in gentle swells, the dense canopy peeling back to reveal open sky and the first pale rolls of highland grass.

the mountain was behind her. she did not know it was worse than that—gone, like a mirage.

zharille lifted her head, jaws parted just enough to taste the cool wind, tongue curling against the sharp edge of her own teeth. the moon lit the way forward, silver flooding the land like spilled milk, and somewhere ahead something small and warm rustled in the heather. her ears flicked. the hunger sharpened, visceral and demanding, but the power-high still cloaked her thoughts in arrogant certainty—this was still her world, still hers to take. she lowered her great frame further, stalking now with the slow, deliberate glide of a predator who had slain queens and would not go hungry tonight.

Benji's adjusting to life within the Howff a little easier than she thought she would. She isn't always there, longer term residents trawl it consistently and she admires their dedication to stasis, but each time she returns when her ventures wane or her bones feel weary, and that means something to a degree.

It doesn't mean her tolerance for ruckus has developed to match, however.

Tonight the noise and chatter draws her from the Row in search of a quieter locale to inhabit.

It's never so simple as that though. She isn't necessarily wired but to settle down and still isn't immediately appealing.

She wants quiet, not rest.

Fresh snow and sharp frost dusts the land, making for an easy time tracking prey-paths where her stomach is concerned. Despite the frigidity, she's managed to steal her fill of winter thin creatures with little complication. Tonight is no different.

Benji's head sweeps low, nose attentive to the criss-crossing impressions of a hare ambling north. It's a languid trail she follows and for this, she doesn't remain as alert as is typical. If a hare isn't concerned, why would she be anything less than content? There's an answer waiting for her in the heather. Tall, weathering long grasses sway when she presses forward. The scent of hare intensifies but so does that of fear. Sudden, absolute fear. Then she sees it.

The hare stilled, offering not so much as a nose twitch.

She does not think of the absurdity in that.

She does not think why.

Benji only lunges for it and wastes no moment in securing her jaws around its squealing frame.

the wind shifted.

a sharp spike of fear sliced through the cool night air—sudden, absolute, followed almost instantly by the hot copper burst of fresh blood and the warm musk of hare. zharille’s ears snapped forward. her nostrils flared wide, pulling the scent deep. somewhere just ahead, in the tall, frost-dusted heather, another wolf had struck.

she altered her path without hesitation, lowering her great frame further and gliding forward with predatory intent. the grasses parted around her heavy chest as she emerged into a small clearing bathed in moonlight. there, low to the ground, was the stranger—for an instant zharille thought she saw her own reflection there; large and strong and masculine, jaws already locked tight around a hare that had been squealing only heartbeats ago. its body gave one last feeble kick before going limp between the other’s teeth.

zharille stopped.

not from caution, but because the sight sent a hot, possessive surge rolling through her chest.

the hare’s blood-scent flooded her senses, rich and tempting, mingling with the unfamiliar winter-sharp scent of the other wolf. hunger twisted viciously in her gut, deeper now, more demanding. there was certainty—this land, this kill, this moment—all of it was hers to claim if she wished.

a low, guttural grunt rolled from deep in her chest, heavy and vibrating through the cold air like distant thunder. her massive shoulders bunched as she took one deliberate step forward. then another. the moonlight caught across her broad back, making her appear even larger, more solid. she loomed now, head lowered, beady golden eyes fixed on the stranger and the fresh kill still twitching between their teeth.

zharille’s jaws parted slightly, tongue curling against her teeth as hot breath curled into the frigid night. she did not speak. she simply stared down, waiting—a mountain of muscle and lingering triumph—to see whether this one would prove as meek as the mountain-men. she had taken life for less.

She freezes.

Eyes blown wide and breaths brought to a shallow repetition.

Benji's jaw tenses to support the sudden dead weight in her mouth but she never averts her focus from the wolf before her. This isn't the first time she's had some vulture in fur try to pressure her out of a kill she made. There's been many that were better than her. There's been many more that were better than the stranger. Larger and far more convincing that a fight would be so undesirable for Benji that abandoning fresh meat would be the least of her concerns.

Whether it's luck or inadvertent trouble, she can't determine, but she isn't hungry.

Fishing at the Howff has kept her content for the most part.

So when she lifts a paw and presses it into the snow, firm and unmoving, she's making a point. It might read as a threat, not that she's particularly concerned regarding it.

Benji offers a little grunt of her own, a beckoning whuff of sorts. "Hungry?" She mumbles through a full mouth. "Who are you?"

she did not answer with words.

a low, guttural sound rumbled from zharille’s chest in answer — heavier than the other’s grunt, vibrating through the cold night like distant rockfall. her amber eyes narrowed, fixed on the hare still clenched between the smaller wolf’s jaws. the power that had burned through her veins since castle rock surged again, hot and possessive, refusing to let something so small stand in her way.

she took one slow, deliberate step closer. her heavy paw came down hard, claws slicing through the thin crust of frost and sinking deep into the frozen earth beneath. snow crunched loudly under her weight. another step followed, shoulders rolling with the same blunt force she had used to break saplings and bodies alike. the distance between them shrank until the heat of zharille’s breath rolled over the other wolf in visible clouds.

the words that came through the stranger’s full mouth were muffled but clear enough. who are you?

zharille’s lips curled back just enough to bare the sharp edges of her yellow teeth. her tongue pressed against them as she tasted the cold air and the rich copper still lingering on the wind. hunger gnawed at her insides like a living thing, sharper now that the kill was so close. yet beneath the ache rode something uglier — the arrogant certainty that this soft highland night, this hare, this wolf too—all of it should already be hers.

instead, a deep, rolling grunt tore from her chest, raw and commanding. her head lowered further, massive jaws parting as hot breath washed over the hare and the wolf holding it. her ears flicked once, forward and dominant, while her tail hung low and stiff behind her. every line of her heavy frame spoke the same message:

give.

she did not stare for long.

with a sudden, brutal surge, zharille lunged forward. her massive head shot down, jaws gaping wide as she aimed to tear the hare free from the other wolf’s grip.

the hare’s blood-scent filled her nostrils, rich and maddening, making her stomach twist violently with need. the phantom cries for mercy still echoed faintly in the back of her skull, but they were drowned out now by the roar of fresh hunger. she would rip the kill away, swallow it whole if she had to, and leave this stranger with nothing but the taste of defeat if they dared resist.

Now, don't get it twisted.

This isn't the worst situation she's been in.

The thick scar curling around her throat is a testament to the belligerence she's encountered; insight into the extremes didn't make her foolish, though. Benji knows trouble when it greets her and tonight it greets her wordlessly. She's foolish for other reasons.

It's cruelty that she knows so closely. It finds her like a friend. She embraces it like one.

Pressing in, Benji lifts her head and straightens her posture so that they're nearly eye to eye. The hare hangs there, the shadow of blood dripping off plush pale fur. It's almost as though she wants a reaction.

She gets it.

Benji doesn't brace for the initial blow, frenzied teeth sink into the haunches of the hare and jerk her forward but two steps where she regains her footing and tightens her own grip on the torso. The stranger's attack is hungering. Benji's is reactive—taunting. If anyone were to come across them, this may look like a truly demented game of tug of war. Well, for her it is. There's no weight in this for her beyond sustaining stubborn ego.

While not as heavy as the other, she does leverage the difference in weight; using the stranger as an anchor, she hunkers low and scrabbles backward. Benji doesn't growl. She doesn't snarl.

There is only the sudden and unavoidable sound of flesh and fur tearing.

zharille’s lips peeled back further.

she did not wait.

with a sudden, brutal surge, her massive jaws snapped forward and sank deep into the hare’s haunches.

teeth sheared through fur, skin, and muscle with wet, crunching force. the taste of hot blood exploded across her tongue — rich, metallic, still pulsing with the last faint heat of life. she jerked her head violently to the side, trying to rip the kill free in one savage motion.

the stranger did not yield; instead she hunkered low, scrabbling backward, using zharille’s own weight as an anchor. for a heartbeat the hare stretched between them like a rope of flesh and bone.

then it tore.

the sound was wet and unmistakable — a sickening rip of sinew and hide splitting apart. the hare’s body gave way with a sharp crack of bone as its spine severed. hot blood sprayed in a sudden arc across the frost, splattering across zharille’s muzzle, chest, and the smaller wolf’s face in thick, steaming ropes. one half of the hare remained clamped in zharille’s jaws — haunches and hind legs dangling, guts beginning to spill in slippery loops. the other half stayed gripped in the stranger’s teeth, the torso and forelegs twitching once with residual nerve fire.

zharille’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as the copper flood filled her mouth. she crushed down harder, teeth grinding through bone and gristle, swallowing the first hot rush of blood and shredded meat without hesitation. the flavor was savage and perfect — warm life torn in half beneath the cold moon. it soothed the gnawing void in her stomach even as fresh hunger roared louder at the promise of more.

a deep, guttural snarl tore from her chest, muffled around the mangled half-carcass still locked in her jaws. blood dripped heavily from her chin and stained the thick fur of her neck and shoulders. her shoulders bunched tighter, claws gouging deep into the frozen earth as she planted herself and lunged again, trying to slam her broad chest into the smaller wolf and drive her backward.

the power-high that had carried her since castle rock flared hot beneath her skin, mixing with the fresh taste of blood and the raw satisfaction of violence. this soft highland night would not deny her—this taunting stranger would not deny her.

zharille shook her great head once, violently, flinging droplets of viscera into heather. she wanted the rest. she wanted all of it.

and she would take it.

All Benji hears is the wet pop of flesh peeling from flesh. She narrows her gaze against the crimson spray, itching an irritated growl out from her lungs as the last thing she wants is to be made a mess with blood that isn't hers. She's not benefiting much from the savaging that the stranger commits; long ears slap at her muzzle with each shake or tug, bony forelimbs tent awkwardly in the back of her mouth when she adjusts her hold, and the looping entrails sort of just plop out and swing.

She tries to reach for them, even a tooth's hold could steal some of the spillage back.

The stranger refuses, crowding closer, shoving herself closer, hooking tooth and claw into any little bit of flesh and ice to steer this in her favor.

Benji lets out a strangely doggish woof.

Borderline playful.

Thoroughly impish.

At once, Benji rips herself backward, stumbling once before all four limbs steady.

Another, and final, well-timed shake from the stranger pairs with Benji's only resistance.

The hare splits. Guts fall.

Fur flies.

Benji snorts and scrambles away, shaking her spoils of this despite the lackluster fat on them. As if a dance, her departure is only flair, spinning on great paws now that a decent lies between them, she faces the stranger with a coy grin visible even with the hare remnants hanging in her muzzle. It's not quite a taunt this time.

An offer, perhaps?

"I just want your name," she says, breathless but moving again. What she lacks in size, she makes up for in being the swifter of the two. "You can call me Benji." She has to swallow a coppery breath this time. "See, fair trade now!"

zharille did not care for offers.

she stood planted like a boulder, shoulders bunched, broad chest heaving. the back half of the hare dangled from her clenched teeth.

she took one heavy step forward, paws slamming into the snow and ice, claws gouging deep. another step. the half-carcass swung wildly from her jaws, slapping against her bloodied chest with wet, meaty thuds.

a low, guttural growl rolled from deep in her throat, muffled and ugly around the mouthful of torn hare.

zharille.

the name came out through clenched teeth, distorted and rough, forced between grinding molars and the mangled remains still locked in her jaws. it sounded more like a threat than a name — grunted, bestial, spat out with bits of blood and fur. she shook her great head once, violently, sending another spray of crimson across the frost and nearly losing her grip on the dangling hindquarters.

she did not return the playful tone. she did not match the coy grin. she simply stood there, massive and immovable, blood dripping from her chin in steady plops onto the snow while she chewed once, twice, swallowing a chunk of raw meat with a loud, wet gulp.

zharille dropped the torn haunches onto the frost with a wet slap and immediately lowered her great head, jaws parting wide. she ate like the ogre she was — ugly, greedy, and without shame. blood already painted her muzzle, chest, and forelegs in thick, glistening streaks that froze in the cold night air. she buried her face into the steaming pile of entrails, snout shoving roughly through loops of gut and slick purple organs as if she were truffle-hunting in soft earth. wet slurping sounds filled the silver-lit clearing as she tore into the warm mess, teeth ripping through liver and intestine with crude, crunching bites. strings of viscera hung from her chin and swung with every violent shake of her head, only to be sucked back in between her blood-smeared lips. she chewed with her mouth half-open, grunting and snorting hot breath into the spilled guts, swallowing great chunks whole while more blood and bile dripped heavily from her jaws onto the snow. there was nothing graceful in it — only raw, bestial hunger, the ogre woman feeding as though the entire world might try to steal her prize if she paused even for a breath.

her tongue swept across her teeth. hunger still gnawed at her gut, but satisfaction flickered beneath it—crude, simple, victorious.

your queen is dead. bow. she commands—unaware that this was not castle rock, or anything close to it. she had conquered these people and expected a certain level of obeisance, or at the very least fear, neither of which this stranger exuded.

Zharille.

Now, that's a curious name. Unlike any she's heard before but even in bloody jaws, it sounds... Important? Elegant. Had a weight to it that most names lacked, including her own. Within that thought there's an answer to a question she'd been bound to ask. Zharille wasn't from here. Where then, mhm?

Benji is patient in watching, not exceptionally put off or disturbed by the other's feasting, most of which she attributes to a deep hunger instead of a lack of tack. Not like it isn't an unfounded instinct to display so much greedy possession. An ear still folds back awkwardly at the final slurp of entrails down the gullet.

It pops up just as quickly.

"I've no queen, Zharille." And she thinks it strange to assume so. "I bow to no one."

Benji trots forward, just enough to shorten the distance she must toss the remaining hunk of hare at the other. Quite ingloriously. "Don't forget yourself," she says, returning back to the place she's decided provides them both enough neutral ground. "It's clear you're not from these lands... Or have you not noticed that yet?"